The first strike came without warning.
One moment Jack stood fifteen feet away, explaining proper breathing patterns for mana circulation during unarmed combat. The next moment his fist was three inches from my face, moving faster than my eyes could properly track.
I jerked backward on pure instinct, the blow missing by a hair's breadth. The displaced air ruffled my hair and made my eyes water from the sheer velocity.
Jack's fist retracted to guard position with the same impossible speed, his expression carved from stone.
"Lesson one," he said, voice carrying the same tone as if discussing the weather rather than nearly breaking my nose. "Combat begins before the first blow lands. Your body sensed the shift in my intent and reacted before your conscious mind registered the threat. That instinct kept you alive just now. But retreating creates distance when you need to close it. Again, without backing away this time."
Before I could properly prepare myself, he struck again. Same speed, same trajectory, same overwhelming pressure that made my survival instincts scream.
This time I tried to deflect rather than dodge. Brought my left arm up in a sweeping block, channeling mana through the limb the way I'd learned during Flash God training, trying to reinforce bone and muscle against the incoming force.
Crack.
Our forearms met with a sound like a hammer striking an anvil.
Pain exploded through my entire arm, radiating from the point of impact outward in waves that made my vision blur. The force drove me backward three stumbling steps, my boots scraping across courtyard stone as I fought to maintain balance. My left arm hung at my side, throbbing with an intensity that suggested something had cracked beneath the skin.
"Better," Jack said, advancing with measured steps that spoke to absolute confidence. "You attempted to meet force with force rather than simply avoiding it. But your reinforcement was inadequate, your timing poor, and your angle wrong. The block absorbed the full energy of my strike when a proper deflection redirects force rather than opposing it directly. Feel the difference between these two approaches."
He demonstrated on empty air, his arm moving through a blocking motion that met an imaginary strike head on, then repeated the movement with a subtle angle change that would guide the incoming blow past his body rather than stopping it completely.
"Block versus deflect. One exhausts your strength, the other uses the opponent's momentum against them. Again."
He struck. I attempted to deflect. Pain bloomed fresh.
"Again."
Strike. Deflect. Pain. Stagger.
"Again."
The pattern repeated endlessly, each iteration blurring into the next until individual exchanges lost distinction. Jack advanced, I defended, and my arms accumulated damage faster than anything should reasonably accumulate. Bruises formed and darkened. Small blood vessels burst beneath skin, creating patches of discolored flesh. My bones ached with the deep throb that came from impacts absorbed improperly.
But with each repetition, something shifted. The angle of my deflections improved by degrees so small they were almost imperceptible. The mana reinforcement became marginally more efficient as my body learned through painful repetition what worked and what failed. The searing agony decreased from unbearable to merely terrible, my tolerance adjusting to accommodate what had seemed impossible moments before.
After perhaps the fiftieth exchange, Jack stopped mid-advance and nodded once, the gesture carrying more weight than words.
"Your body is beginning to understand what your mind cannot yet fully grasp. The Iron Body Method isn't learned through intellectual comprehension or careful study. It's learned through repetition until your muscles and bones remember the patterns without requiring conscious thought. Now we add the next layer of complexity."
He gestured toward the humanoid training dummies positioned around the courtyard in a rough circle. These weren't the reinforced wooden targets I'd been destroying with First Light for weeks. These were different, constructed with articulated joints and enchanted cores that gave them almost lifelike properties.
"These training constructs are specially built to provide resistance appropriate for your current level. They're enchanted to absorb and return kinetic energy, simulating combat against an opponent who fights back rather than standing passive. You're going to practice the eight basic strikes on them until your hands bleed and heal and bleed again. Until the motion becomes as natural as breathing."
Jack moved to the nearest dummy with the economy of motion that marked true masters. His right hand shot forward in what appeared to be a simple palm strike, but the technique carried devastating force that made the air compress visibly. The dummy's chest caved inward from the impact, its enchantments glowing amber as they absorbed and dissipated energy that would have pulverized human ribs.
Thud.
The sound echoed across the courtyard like a boulder dropped from height.
"Palm strike. Uses the entire surface of your hand, distributing force across maximum area. Targets the chest, stomach, or face depending on range and opportunity. Effective for creating distance or stunning opponents who press too close. The power originates from your legs, transfers through your core, and explodes outward through your arm. If any part of that chain breaks, the strike loses effectiveness."
His left hand came up in a different motion, fingers extended and locked together, the edge of his palm cutting through air like a blade. The strike connected with the dummy's neck region with surgical precision, and I heard the wooden structure creak despite the protective enchantments designed to prevent exactly that kind of damage.
Crack.
"Ridge hand. Uses the reinforced edge of your palm as a cutting surface. Targets neck, temple, or ribs. Effective for precision strikes against vulnerable points when you need to end a fight quickly rather than wear down an opponent. Requires more control than a palm strike but delivers concentrated force to smaller areas."
His right elbow shot backward in a sharp, compact motion that would have caught an imaginary opponent positioned behind him. The strike was economical, brutal, carrying none of the wasted movement that marked amateur techniques.
Whump.
"Rear elbow. Close range weapon for when an enemy has closed past your optimal striking distance. Targets face, solar plexus, or liver depending on their height and positioning. Most fighters forget they can strike backward effectively, making this technique particularly useful for surprising opponents who think they've achieved superior position. Don't be like most fighters."
Jack continued demonstrating the remaining five strikes with the same methodical precision. Front elbow driving forward like a battering ram. Knee rising to catch targets at midsection height. Front kick snapping out with speed that made it blur. Side kick delivering power through the heel. Roundhouse kick sweeping through an arc that could break bones.
Each technique executed with perfect form. Each one carrying enough power that the training dummy shook despite being anchored to the courtyard floor through enchanted bolts. Each demonstration a masterclass in efficiency and controlled violence.
"These eight strikes form the foundation of the Iron Body Method. Everything else builds from this base. You will execute each strike one thousand times today. That's eight thousand repetitions total. Your hands and feet will break from the repeated impacts. Your bones will crack under the strain. Your muscles will tear from overuse. And through it all, your body will adapt and grow stronger, learning what works through direct experience rather than theory."
He pointed to the nearest dummy with the casual authority of someone accustomed to absolute obedience.
"Begin with palm strikes. I want to see one thousand before midday. Focus on form over speed, on proper execution rather than raw power. Every repetition must meet the standard, or it doesn't count toward your total. Understood?"
"Understood," I replied, my voice carrying more confidence than I felt.
I moved to the dummy and settled into the stance Jack had shown, feet positioned properly, weight distributed according to the principles he'd explained. Gathered mana in my core and prepared to circulate it through my right arm, enhancing muscle and bone the way I'd learned during Flash God training.
Took a breath. Centered myself. Struck.
Thwack.
My palm connected with the dummy's chest, and the enchantments flared with amber light. The impact traveled back through my arm like a shockwave, making my shoulder ache and my elbow joints protest. The dummy rocked backward slightly on its base, then returned to neutral position, ready for the next strike.
"Acceptable form for a first attempt," Jack called from where he stood observing with his arms crossed. "But your mana reinforcement was still weak, too concentrated in your forearm rather than distributed through the entire kinetic chain. The strike should feel like your entire body contributed, not just your arm. Again."
I struck again. And again. And again.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The sound became a rhythm, a drumbeat marking the passage of time through simple repetition. Each impact sent feedback through my arm, teaching my body what worked and what failed through the most direct method possible.
By the hundredth repetition, my palm was red and swollen, the skin beginning to show signs of damage from repeated impact against enchanted wood that felt harder than stone. By the two hundredth, blood oozed from small splits that opened with each strike, tiny ruptures in flesh pushed beyond its normal limits. By the three hundredth, my hand felt like a single mass of bruised meat barely attached to my wrist, the bones aching with the deep throb that spoke to structural damage.
But I continued. Pain became a constant companion, a background sensation that I learned to acknowledge and move past. My body worked to heal the damage even as I created more, some quality of my constitution making recovery faster than it should be, though not fast enough to prevent accumulation.
The sun climbed higher in the sky, marking the passage of hours through simple geometry. Sweat poured down my face and soaked through my training clothes, making the fabric cling to skin. My breathing became labored, each exhalation carrying a grunt of effort that echoed across the courtyard.
Jack watched every repetition with the attention of a master craftsman evaluating an apprentice's work. Occasionally he would call corrections, his voice cutting through the rhythm of impact.
"Your weight shifted forward too early. Reset and maintain proper distribution."
"That strike came from your shoulder instead of your core. Do it correctly or don't do it at all."
"Your mana circulation stuttered halfway through the motion. Maintain consistent flow."
By the seven hundredth repetition, my vision had narrowed to a tunnel focused solely on the dummy's chest and the motion of my striking hand. The world beyond that small sphere of awareness ceased to exist. There was only the strike, the impact, the feedback, the reset, the next strike.
By the nine hundredth repetition, something fundamental clicked into place. The strike that connected with the dummy's chest carried significantly more force than any previous attempt, the difference obvious even through my exhaustion. The enchantments flared brighter, working harder to absorb impact that made the entire structure shudder despite its anchoring.
Boom.
The sound was different, deeper, carrying a quality that spoke to proper technique finally achieved.
"There," Jack said, satisfaction evident in his tone. "That one was correct. The power originated from your legs, transferred smoothly through your core, and exploded outward through your arm as a unified force rather than separate components fighting each other. That's what every strike should feel like. Ten more of that quality to complete the set."
I executed ten more palm strikes, each one matching or exceeding that nine hundredth repetition's power. When I finally stopped and stepped back from the dummy, my right hand was a horrific mess of blood and bruises, swollen to nearly twice its normal size. But beneath the damage, I could feel something different. The bones were denser. The skin was tougher. My body had adapted to the punishment, growing stronger through the process of being broken down and rebuilt.
"Ridge hand next," Jack announced without giving me time to recover or treat the injuries. "One thousand repetitions. Begin."
The pattern repeated with brutal efficiency. Strike until my hand broke. Continue striking while it slowly healed. Feel the pain become familiar, then distant, then just another sensation to catalog and move past without letting it affect performance.
Ridge hand gave way to rear elbow, the motion requiring different muscles and creating different patterns of damage. The rear elbow became the front elbow, the shift in angle putting new stress on joints. The front elbow transitioned to knee strikes that left my kneecap feeling like someone had systematically demolished it with a hammer, each impact sending sharp pain shooting through the joint.
The kicks were worse by an order of magnitude. Front kick, side kick, roundhouse kick. Each one requiring balance and flexibility I hadn't known I possessed, each one punishing my feet and shins with impacts that made walking afterward feel like stepping on broken glass mixed with hot coals.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The sound of my feet striking enchanted wood became a different rhythm from the hand strikes, higher pitched and more brittle, the bones in my feet less protected than those in my hands.
But with each thousand repetitions, my body adapted with remarkable speed. The skin on my hands and feet toughened, developing calluses that would have taken months to form under normal training conditions. My bones became denser through the constant micro-fractures, growing stronger in response to repeated stress. My muscles learned the optimal patterns for generating and transferring force, ingraining the motions at a level deeper than conscious thought.
When the sun finally began its descent toward the horizon, painting the courtyard in shades of gold and amber, Jack called a halt.
"Eight thousand repetitions. Adequate performance for day one." He walked over and examined my hands with clinical interest, turning them over to assess the damage from multiple angles. "The injuries are healing faster than I anticipated. Most students would require three days of rest after a training session of this intensity before they could hold a cup without trembling. You'll be functional by morning at this rate."
He released my hands and stepped back, his expression revealing nothing of what he thought about that observation.
"Tomorrow we will add combinations. You'll learn to chain strikes together seamlessly, to flow from one technique to the next without pause or telegraphing. The day after, we incorporate footwork and defensive patterns to make you a complete fighter rather than a stationary striker. By the third day's end, you should have sufficient proficiency to attempt landing a strike on me in our final test."
Jack's expression became serious, the weight of expectation settling over the courtyard like physical pressure.
"The Iron Body Method is not as complex as the Flash God Technique. It doesn't require the same level of precision timing or the same depth of technical mastery. But it demands something different and equally difficult. It demands that you turn your entire body into a weapon, that you move with absolute confidence and total commitment, that you accept taking damage as the price for dealing it. Can you do that?"
I looked down at my battered hands, at the blood and bruises that were already beginning to fade as my body worked its accelerated healing. Felt the deep bone-weariness that came from eight thousand impacts distributed across my entire body. Recognized the challenge being presented.
And realized that despite the pain, despite the exhaustion that made my legs shake, I wanted to continue. I wanted to master this art the same way I'd mastered the saber techniques, through dedication and repetition until it became part of me.
"I can," I said, meeting Jack's eyes directly, letting him see the determination there. "I will."
"Good answer." Jack turned and began walking toward the manor, his footsteps echoing across the courtyard. "Rest tonight. Eat well, sleep deeply. Let your body recover what it can. Tomorrow will be harder than today. Dismissed."
I limped back to my room, every step a reminder of the day's brutal training. Collapsed onto my bed fully clothed, too exhausted even to remove my boots, and lost consciousness within seconds. My battered body demanded rest it could use for repair, and I gave it without resistance.
The second day began the same way the first had, with Jack's thunderous knock pulling me from sleep before dawn properly arrived. My body felt stiff but functional, the worst of yesterday's damage already repaired through whatever quality allowed me to recover faster than normal.
Today's training focused on combinations rather than isolated strikes. Jack demonstrated how to chain the eight basic techniques into flowing sequences that covered multiple attack angles and ranges simultaneously.
"Palm strike to create initial distance and assess opponent reaction, transition immediately into ridge hand targeting the exposed neck when they pull back, drop your weight and drive a knee into their midsection as they try to cover high, finish with a rear elbow as they double over from the knee impact."
He demonstrated the four-strike sequence on a training dummy at full speed, the techniques flowing together so smoothly they appeared as one continuous explosion of motion rather than separate components.
Crack-thud-whump-boom.
The dummy shook violently from the combination, its enchantments working overtime to dissipate the cascading impacts.
"Now you execute it. Five thousand repetitions of this combination, then we move to the next sequence."
The pattern repeated from yesterday but intensified by the added complexity. Not only did each strike need to meet the standard for proper form, but the transitions between them had to be seamless. Any pause, any hesitation, any break in the flow resulted in Jack's immediate correction and a command to restart the sequence from the beginning.
My body protested constantly. The accumulated damage from yesterday hadn't fully healed before new damage began layering on top. But something fundamental was changing. The pain became familiar, manageable, just another input to process and adapt to rather than something that dominated awareness.
Thwack-crack-whump-boom.
The sound of the combination became a rhythm I could execute without conscious thought, my body moving through the sequence automatically while my mind focused on mana circulation and reinforcement timing.
By midday, I could chain the first combination without pause or error, the flow becoming natural rather than forced.
Jack introduced a second combination. Then a third. Then a fourth. Each one building on the foundation of the eight basic strikes but adding complexity through different ordering and timing.
The sun set on day two with me capable of executing multiple combination sequences with acceptable form and power. My hands and feet were noticeably tougher, the skin thick with calluses that absorbed impact better. The techniques were becoming part of me, settling into muscle memory.
On the morning of the third day, Jack stood in the courtyard's center with no training dummies present. Just open space and him, standing relaxed in a way that somehow made him more threatening rather than less.
"Today we add the final components that transform isolated techniques into actual combat capability. Footwork and defensive patterns. You can't simply stand still and trade blows with an opponent like some kind of stationary punching contest. You need to move, to create angles that favor your attacks while denying theirs, to evade when necessary and advance when opportunities present themselves."
He demonstrated footwork patterns that looked deceptively simple but required precise weight transfer and split-second timing. Showed me how to slip punches through minimal head movement rather than large dodges that wasted energy and created distance. Taught me to deflect strikes at angles that used the attacker's momentum against them, redirecting force rather than absorbing it.
"Movement is the difference between a striker and a fighter. Strikers hit hard but die when overwhelmed. Fighters adapt, survive, and find ways to win even when outmatched. You're going to become a fighter."
The training became a flowing exchange that resembled a deadly dance more than conventional instruction. Jack would attack, I would defend and counter, he would defend my counter and attack again. Back and forth, strike and response, action and reaction, the pace gradually increasing until we moved at speeds that would look superhuman to ordinary observers.
Crack-whump-thud.
The sound of our exchanges echoed across the courtyard as the sun climbed higher.
Hours blurred together into a continuous stream of motion. My body moved on pure instinct now, the techniques I'd drilled for two days responding without requiring conscious direction. Jack's strikes came faster and faster, testing my reactions, forcing me to adapt and respond correctly in the moment or take punishing hits that left new bruises.
The sun reached its zenith and began descending toward the horizon, painting the world in afternoon gold.
My mana pool depleted and recovered multiple times through the extended session as I constantly reinforced my body, circulated energy through proper channels, maintained the enhancement necessary to keep up with Jack's relentless testing.
Finally, as afternoon light began transitioning toward evening, Jack stepped back and nodded once.
"Adequate. You've developed the foundation. The Iron Body Method will continue improving with practice and real combat application, but you understand the core principles now. You're ready for tomorrow's test."
The translucent blue screen materialized in my vision with its characteristic chime, appearing suddenly enough that I had to suppress the instinct to react visibly. Jack was still watching, and revealing the system's existence would raise questions I couldn't answer.
[Congratulations! You have learned a new skill through intensive practice and proper instruction.]
[Skill Acquired: Iron Body Method]
[Skill: Iron Body Method]
[Type: Active Combat Art]
[Proficiency: Basic (1%)]
[Cost: Variable based on enhancement level]
[Description: The Einsworth family's unarmed combat style. This art teaches practitioners to transform their entire body into a weapon through mana enhancement and proper technique execution. Every part of the body becomes a tool for dealing and receiving damage. The method emphasizes flowing combinations, aggressive advancement, and the willingness to trade damage when tactically advantageous.]
[At Basic proficiency, this art allows you to:]
[- Execute eight fundamental strikes with proper form and power]
[- Chain strikes into effective combinations covering multiple angles]
[- Enhance your body through mana circulation to increase striking power and durability]
[- Move with footwork patterns that create tactical advantages]
[- Defend against unarmed attacks through deflection and evasion]
[Current Limitations:]
[- Extended enhancement drains mana rapidly]
[- Defensive techniques are reactive rather than predictive]
[- Footwork becomes unstable under sustained pressure]
[- Cannot effectively counter armed opponents without significant skill gap]
[- Recovery time needed between intensive exchanges]
[Proficiency Advancement:]
[To advance this skill to Intermediate proficiency, you must:]
[- Successfully execute the Iron Body Method in actual combat 100 times (0/100)]
[- Land 50 significant strikes on opponents of equal or higher rank (0/50)]
[- Develop 3 personal variations or combinations beyond the basic forms (0/3)]
[- Defeat 10 enemies using only unarmed techniques (0/10)]
I dismissed the screen with a thought, careful to keep my expression neutral. Jack was studying me with his usual intensity, but he gave no indication of noticing anything unusual.
"You've done well over these past weeks. Better than I expected when we began a month ago. Tomorrow morning, we will conduct your final test. Remember the conditions. Unarmed combat, no weapons, no mana circulation allowed on your part. I will only defend and evade. Your goal is to land a single strike on me. Any strike, anywhere on my body, counts as success."
He paused, his expression becoming challenging in a way that made my competitive instincts wake up and pay attention.
"I won't make it easy. You'll need everything you've learned, both the Flash God footwork patterns and the Iron Body strikes, combined in ways we haven't explicitly practiced. To have any chance of success against someone of my experience and rank. Get proper rest tonight. Tomorrow determines whether you depart for the Continental Academy as someone who's earned their place, or as someone who still requires additional refinement."
Jack turned and walked toward the manor, his footsteps echoing across the courtyard with their characteristic weight.
I stood alone in the fading light, feeling the magnitude of what was coming settle over me like a physical presence. One month of training culminating in a single test. Land one strike on a man who was almost certainly Master rank or higher, someone with decades of combat experience, someone who'd seen every trick and technique countless times before.
The challenge should have felt impossible, the gap too large to bridge through any means available to me.
But standing there with bruised knuckles and the Iron Body Method fresh in my muscle memory, I felt something else instead.
Readiness. Anticipation. The absolute certainty that tomorrow, somehow, I would find a way to make contact. To prove that the month of brutal training had forged me into something worthy of the Einsworth name.
The saber pulsed contentedly at my hip through our bond, as though acknowledging my thoughts and agreeing with the assessment.
Tomorrow. One final test. Then the Continental Academy, where the real challenges awaited.
But tonight, I would rest. Would let my body complete its healing. Would visualize the spar, running through scenarios and strategies, preparing mentally for what physical preparation alone couldn't accomplish.
The sun touched the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant colors that seemed to promise something significant approaching.
And somewhere in the manor, Duke Eamon watched from his study window, observing the son who'd transformed from disappointment to warrior in exactly thirty days, wondering what tomorrow would reveal about whether that transformation was complete or merely beginning.